


Slow

by shittershutter



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 07:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: It's the silence and the air of complete stillness around the guy that make Pope fall for him. The gaze of a century-old elephant plastered across the twinkiest face he's ever seen that focuses on him, fixes him to the spot and doesn't let go.





	Slow

**Author's Note:**

> Damn you, Netflix. Damn you.

It's the silence and the air of complete stillness around the guy that make Pope fall for him. The gaze of a century-old elephant plastered across the twinkiest face he's ever seen that focuses on him, fixes him to the spot and doesn't let go. 

In a sharp contrast of yelling, running without looking back and hitting the wall over and over it draws him in and like a dying man in a desert he follows Will's footsteps wherever he goes to stay awhile in hopes that some of that stillness rubs off on him and lets him breathe, and sleep, and raise his head above the violence, the blood and his own futile efforts to stop it. 

On a hot summer day, he finds himself in Will's ascetic lair, the bare minimum of furniture peppered with the trinkets from his overseas assignments: the gods, the monsters and everything in-between. Home of a man who hasn't found peace yet but has sure as fuck dedicated some quality time looking. 

Pope has a free week between jobs, Will is freshly off the speaking tour, and silence is something they can truly appreciate as it hangs between them, undisturbed. 

Then Will's knees crack and he drops to the floor shifting the power dynamic between them in one awkward motion. He stares up at Pope almost in reverence, his eyes focused and his hands linked in his lap. 

Similar to the statues on his bedside table, he looks vulnerable yet unbreakable, with scars tracing his skin like cracks through clay and stone.

Will teaches him how he likes it. 

Slow and hard, the measured push and pull of hips against hips that make toes curl and thighs tremble when two men are one body and heartbeat, connected. 

He moves under Pope like a python, languid, strong, arching his entire body when the angle is right. Knees digging into Pope's ribs, thighs squeezing him just like a murderous snake would, and Will’s moan rattling through his chest and coming out as a hiss to complete the reptilian illusion. 

Their affection is always silent, from the years and years of practicing it in the darkest corners of the most dangerous places — not by choice but by necessity then — now a habit that is too strong to break. 

For Will, the silence is natural. Pope, on the other hand, he’d roar from the intensity of it, tearing through his chest, pushing against the ribs when the other man is under him like this, submissive in his ways of taking pleasure with his head thrown back, his ass tighter than the death grip of his arms and legs around Pope.

He’d tell Will about the love he feels — not the concept one should entertain in their line of work — that is stubbornly there, exploding with the new, endless energy every time Will’s caller id pops up on the screen. The concept he suspects Will is aware of in that annoying way Will seems to become aware of the most secretive things just by staring at people long enough. 

And boy does he stare at Pope. Bright blue eyes focus on him and he touches his sweaty face gently, too gently to get the unruly curly hair that sticks to his brow and stroke the planes of his face until Pope’s mouth finds his palm and presses against it, hiding, nuzzling, mouthing the words of love against Will’s lifeline, strong and well-defined like the rest of him is. 

He feels safe, balanced there, body held tightly between the other man's legs, face cradled in his hands. It’s hot and dark, so dark there are no faintest colors dancing on the backs of his eyelids, and in that darkness, he sees Will on a day they've met, green as the lush vegetation around them, with better sleep and much, much stronger joints. 

The man just sits there, head against the wall, engulfed in the white light of sun hitting his hair, with a slight smile on his face and a firm grip on his rifle like some fucking dual deity of war and life. And Pope drinks the sight in and shakes his head. "Oh baby boy, those sweet boyish looks won't last you long in the jungle," he thinks. "You should take your Cinderella looking ass home away from this forsaken place". 

He's wrong, of course, because two years in Will is still around at times staring at him longer than one should. And one night he drops to his knees in front of him in the murkiest corner of the semi-destroyed warehouse they camp in for cover and bumps his forehead against Pope's jutting hipbone, breathing directly into his dick. "I want you, Santiago," he whispers. "I want you so bad." Outside of it being the longest sentence he's ever uttered to express his personal needs, that's a brave and ruthless act in their line of work and Will breaks his seemingly impenetrable zen to profess the truth he can easily be beaten bloody or worse for. 

Five years in Will drags him through the debris under the gunfire while bleeding profusely from his head -- the scene that gives him the nickname and the legendary status -- and maybe it's the blood loss talking because Pope himself leaves a wet trail behind him like a snail but each time he looks up, he marvels at how beautiful the blue eyes look against the bloodied face and he thinks, "No baby, that's where you belong". 

Sometimes their slow is of "two badly damaged men in their late thirties bumping uglies" variety and sometimes -- like today -- Will goes straight tantra on his ass and they lie and move and slide against each other for it feels like hours until Pope forgets his own name and all of his demons' faces. Until his sense of self is fractured into little pieces. He can feel his fingers intertwined with Will's right next to his face but also miles away in his mind's view. His other hand squeezed between the mattress and Will's lower back, moving and shifting him to adjust their pelvises against each other. His dick is up Will's ass so deep they've become one. The rest of him is slick and red, and oversensitized in constant shifting motion he can't tell where he ends and the other man begins. 

They hiss and gasp and move like two snakes mating. Every time Pope gets too lost and tries to speed up knees dig into his sides and there is a hand stroking the back of his head with a barely audible: "Shhhhhh" that follows. 

"I can't..." he whines at some point, too shaken to push himself up to look at the other man. He bites his collarbone instead for emphasis and digs his forehead into the man's shoulder helplessly. "Baby, I can't..."

"Just a bit longer," Will whispers, his voice remarkably stable while there is a telltale tiny shiver running up and down his inner thighs which Pope can feel just like he can feel a hard dick burrowing a hole through his belly. "It's been too fucking long".

Pope lets out a wet wordless gasp, his useless tongue licking through the salt of the man's skin in a silent sentiment of "Yes, I know, I know..."

Will's been with him in his every bed for twenty years, the man's face imprinted on the back of his eyelids, the smell of his hair in his nostrils and the real deal -- whenever he gets to him -- is just too overwhelming for words in any language he speaks. 

He doesn't know who comes first -- the shudder just runs through their intertwined bodies, echoing -- and Will's arms tighten around his shoulders, squeezing, just like his ass does around him. And just like that he's locked and has nowhere to go and nothing to do except pumping the man full until it drips just like his entire body drips with sweat, saliva, and tears. 

"Breathe", he hears after his senses return, switching on one by one, as he lies on his back, blanket stuck firmly to his sweaty skin as a soft hand strokes his belly in circles. He does, through the hot tears and the snot he gets the gasps under control and only then the hand moves up his ribs to his chest where the heart beats heavily underneath the muscle and the bone. 

The open palm presses against the vibrating flesh and stays there, unmoving and hot.


End file.
